


Incubus

by Mattycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattycakes/pseuds/Mattycakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incubus uses Sherlock as a host (*cue bad porno music*)</p><p>Written for the Fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic halloween contest :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incubus

**Incubus**

 

 

It had all started harmlessly enough. Sherlock had never been a particularly sexual individual, even after he and John had upgraded their relationship status from friends to that of lovers. It wasn’t that John was dissatisfied in their relationship (he really wasn’t) but he’d accepted long ago that if sex was ever going to be on the table, John was always going to have to be the one to initiate it.

Which is why it nearly gave John a heart attack when he woke up one morning to the rather surprising, but not at all unwelcome sensation of Sherlock’s warm, wet, whimpering mouth around his cock. 

“Sh-Sherlock!” John gasped, shocked and delighted with the way the day was starting off. Sherlock looked up from his mouthful, eyes heated. He was making all kinds of happy noises around John’s dick, like there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing right now than making his lover lose his mind before they’d even had tea.

Sherlock pulled off with an indecent slurp. “Fuck me.” He demanded, and John’s jaw went slack. Rarely did Sherlock use the ‘big three’ swear words, and hardly ever in the bedroom. He liked it, John decided, and taking a gamble, he roughly pulled Sherlock into position over his lap, hoping that a rough, hard fuck was what Sherlock was angling for. Judging by the way Sherlock gasped and writhed, desperately trying to align his hole with John’s cock, John was right.

“Hang on, we need some lu- _uuuube!”_ John cried out as Sherlock sank down smoothly, not pausing for a moment to adjust before rising and falling again and again. John couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, he just lay there completely stunned as Sherlock fucked himself mercilessly on John’s dick with only sweat and saliva to ease the way.

“John please come for me.” Sherlock’s hips were canting wildly and he was tensing inside the way he always did right before an orgasm, and _that_ was enough to snap John out of his semi-coma. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pistoned them madly, drinking in Sherlock’s howl of pleasure and the sensation of warm wetness splattering over his chest and stomach. Sherlock had never come untouched before and that in itself was what pushed John over the edge and he erupted inside Sherlock with an obscenely grateful-sounding “ _YES!”_

John went about his business with a stupid smile for the rest of the day, happy to file that little incident away as an exciting but likely-to-be-rare occasion. He was therefore shocked to come home and find Sherlock sprawled on the couch, pants around his ankles and hand busy at work in his lap.

“Finally!” Sherlock burst out when John halted in the doorway, eyebrows raised and mouth open. Before now, John hadn’t even been 100% sure that Sherlock masturbated _at all_ yet alone with this obvious level of enthusiasm. “John, I’m desperate, I need you to… oh yes…” Sherlock moaned as John smiled cheekily, dropped his briefcase and fell to his knees beside the couch to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s dick.

That was how things went for the next few days, and John had come to the conclusion that Sherlock’s previous disinterest with sex was likely connected to discomfort due to inexperience. That, and John ‘Three Continents’ Watson was clearly a sexy beast. It wasn’t until a week or so later that John noticed a cause for real concern.

They’d had sex that morning, that afternoon and later that night. Twice. John was officially knackered and his cock was quite honestly at the point of needing a full day of recovery. That night, John fell asleep promising himself a break within the next 24 hours, and woke up four hours later, disturbed from his slumber by slick sounds emanating from Sherlock’s side of the bed.

John propped himself up on his elbow, opening his eyes and squinting as they were assaulted by a bright, bluish light. Sherlock was awake, John’s laptop balanced on his knees. He was flicking through a series of pornographic images, one hand flying over the stiff prick in his lap.

Sherlock’s hand stilled, but his devilish expression didn’t change. “Do you want to fuck me?” he tried hopefully, and John stared at him like he’d gone mad.

“Sherlock it’s three in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring.” He announced, returning to his previous activities.

Just like that, John realised that his boyfriend had overnight become a non-stop sexual machine. Which sounds delightful in theory but in practise it was quite infuriating. Sherlock stopped taking cases, stopped performing strange experiments in the kitchen, even stopped playing that infuriating fiddle that John both loved and hated so much. He was far too preoccupied with fiddling of a different sort, which John was constantly catching Sherlock engaged in whenever the good doctor refused him actual sex. Which, (to Sherlock’s annoyance) was becoming more and more often.

“Why not?” Sherlock demanded after a three-day dry spell between them.

“Because I’m concerned for your wellbeing, and I feel like it would be taking advantage of you right now.” John said patiently, glossing over a Wikipedia entry about nymphomania and finding no real connection to Sherlock’s case. He’d managed to convince Sherlock to let John give him a brief physical in the living room, but only after he’d agreed to a little ‘playing doctor’ in the process. The whole thing had felt weird, John’s orgasm had been entirely unsatisfying and the most annoying part was that John hadn’t even been able to find any _physical_ reason for his boyfriend’s sudden unhealthy obsession with sex.

“You’re not taking advantage, look, I’m consenting!” Sherlock announced, throwing his legs open and exposing himself in a quite blatant demand for sex. He rarely even wore clothes anymore, and John frankly considered himself lucky that Sherlock was still showering.

“Please John, I’ll do anything, we can do it any way you want.” Sherlock suddenly stood and deposited himself in John’s lap, running his hands over his uninterested boyfriend, clearly desperate to ignite some sort of reaction.

“For gods sake Sherlock, there’s something wrong with you!” John exploded, immediately regretting his words and waiting for the detective to curl up in a ball on the couch and sulk for the rest of the evening. Instead, Sherlock stormed up to their bedroom, and John could hear the sound of the drawer where they kept the lube being opened.

“For fucks sake.” John swore, a moment before the doorbell rang. “Oh no, I’ll get it.” John announced sarcastically to the empty room, stomping to the door and wrenching it open to find two men standing before him. One was tall, with brown wavy hair and the other was short with a strong face that might have been stern if not for the playful smile lines around his eyes. They wore friendly expressions, but working part-time as an assistant to a consulting detective (or at least, he _used_ to work with a consulting detective, John thought grimly) told John that they were here with a mission; either to sell a product or a religion, John didn’t really care.

“This isn’t a good time, I’m afraid.” John said, trying to close the door, but the shorter man blocked it with his booted foot.

“We’re not selling anything.” The taller man said quickly in an American accent, smiling reassuringly and holding up his hands in mock-surrender. “My name is Sam, this is my brother Dean. We’re here to ask questions regarding an investigation.”

That got John’s attention. It had seemed like eons since their last case, and even hearing about something other than sex was a welcome change. “Okay, but I haven’t really left my apartment in a while, so I don’t know how much help I can be.” John said apologetically.

The two men exchanged a look and John frowned curiously. “Sir, this might sound strange but have you noticed your wife or girlfriend acting… differently than usual?” the man named Sam tried tentatively, his eyes trained on John in a way similar to Sherlock’s when he was absorbing tiny details about a suspect.

John’s frown deepened. “It’s John, and I don’t have a wife or girlfriend.”

Sam chewed his lip, appearing confused. “Well, err, have _you_ been feeling any different lately? Excess energy, perhaps?”

John shook his head. “No, not really.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

The man named Dean shook his head. “Come on Sam, if it were him, he wouldn’t even be capable of having this conversation. We have the wrong place.”

Sam sighed, obviously put out. “Well listen, John, if you notice anyone on your street acting a little friendlier than usual, would you give us a call, please?” John took the offered slip of paper with a scribbled phone number. The two men turned and made it to the edge of the street before John blurted, “How do you mean friendlier than usual?”

Dean turned; his eyes alight with a strange kind of excitement. He took in John’s tired, worried eyes and smirked. “I think you know exactly what we mean, John.”

 

*

 

“An _incubus?”_ John asked derisively, slamming his coffee mug on the table and glaring at the deadly serious expressions on Dean and Sam’s faces. “I should have known this was a hoax. Get out.”

“John, please…” Sam began patiently, but his brother rolled his eyes and snorted.

“Look, we could do the standard ‘it’s impossible, you’re crazy, get out of my house’ routine, but if we’re right your boyfriend is in very real danger and he doesn’t have a lot of time before the change becomes permanent, so what say you just take our word on this long enough for us to do our job?”

John shook his head. “You’re expecting me, a man of medical science, to believe that my boyfriend is currently possessed by some kind of monster?”

“No, we’re expecting you, a man of deductive reasoning, to take into account your boyfriends behaviour with our theory and come to your own conclusion.” Sam said smoothly, fixing John with a patient but stern glare.

John tried to glare back, he really did. But somewhere in the back of his mind was Sherlock’s cool, logical voice echoing his mantra: _When I’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth._ John had examined Sherlock for a physical cause. He’d exhausted all psychological possibilities. That only left Dean and Sam’s theory, wild as it might be.

“Okay…” John said slowly, which seemed to surprise Sam and Dean as they exchanged an unexpectedly pleased look. “If this is what you say it is, why has it affected my boyfriend? He’s the _last_ person to dabble in anything alien or supernatural.”

Sam leaned forwards. “Has Sherlock bought or inherited anything old recently? Maybe jewellery, a photo album, a piece of furniture?”

“No.” John said honestly. “Why?”

“Incubi are spirits of those who have been rejected in the cruellest of ways. Often their rejection drives them to suicide. Men who have been left at the alter, that sort of thing. Sometimes their spirit can be transported along with something close to them.”

John thought about this. “What about their actual body parts? Their eyes, their fingers, their organs?”

Two minutes later, Dean and Sam were staring open-mouthed into the contents of Sherlock and John’s refrigerator. A human head, several take-away boxes of body-parts and a jar of eyes stared back.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Yep.” He announced. “That’d do it.”

 

*

 

“Harold Perkins, died of dehydration. Organ donor.” John wrinkled his nose at the human heart on the table.

“Dehydration is what most victims die of.” Dean explained. “The host becomes so obsessed with sex, they stop eating and drinking. Harold was probably possessed in the way that we mentioned, by inheriting or buying an item from the original spirit. He dies, Sherlock experiments on his remains, and gets exposed to the spirit himself.”

“What happens now?” John asked quietly, trying not to think of Harold Perkins indulging himself to death and whether or not Sherlock might meet the same fate.

“We take the heart to Harold’s grave and burn it. Both Harold and the spirit will be put to rest.” Sam said quietly.

“In the meantime, you need to keep the spirit distracted.” Dean said. “There’s a strong possibility that he’ll sense what we’re up to, and if that happens, it won’t be good for any of us. Especially not Sherlock.”

John nodded. “How do I distract him?”

Sam and Dean exchanged an awkward glance and John sighed heavily. “I’m kidding. I know what I have to do.”

 

*

 

Later that night, as John ascended the darkened stairs to their bedroom, he wondered how on earth he was going to be able to make love to Sherlock with that… _thing_ inside him. He wasn’t even in the room with him yet, and he could already feel his genitals trying to retract completely into his body and rechristen him ‘Joan’. The notion of maintaining an erection seemed laughable.

Except, when John stopped outside the closed door, he felt warmth spreading through his body, pooling in his groin and earning a half-interested twitch. Sam and Dean mentioned that the creature might have some kind of effect on John, depending on how powerful the bond had become. If John was sensing it from behind a closed door, he thought it must have become pretty strong indeed.

“Sherlock?” John called, keeping his voice light. “Are you in there?”

The door clicked and opened, and John felt a spike of fearful adrenaline shoot through his chest, as he saw nobody standing on the other side. The room was illuminated by the candles John had bought once in an attempt to be romantic, but on this occasion, they looked nothing short of sinister. In the flickering light, Sherlock was lying on the bed, his pale body stark against the black sheets, his prick magnificently stiff against his flat stomach.

 _“John.”_ Sherlock purred, and John didn’t know whether to moan or recoil at the voice that most certainly didn’t belong to his boyfriend.

“Yes,” John breathed, unconsciously slipping out of his jacket. “I’m here, Sherlock. It’s okay.”

Sherlock’s eyes went a little bit softer and he crawled, no _stalked_ was a better word, across the bed, rising onto his knees so that he was level with John and mere inches from his body. John could feel the heat radiating off him.

_“It’s me, John. It’s just me. Don’t be afraid.”_

“I know it’s you.” John murmured, his eyelids growing lazy as the sight of his boyfriend’s body started to reignite his base urges. His prick was hardening in his pants, and Sherlock’s eyes grew a little brighter as John darted out his tongue to lick his lips.

 _“Kiss me,”_ Sherlock leaned forwards, swiping his tongue teasingly over John’s lower lip. John kept completely still, his hands by his sides as Sherlock coaxed him open with his tongue, nothing but their mouths touching. Fuck it was hot, and John could feel his tension falling like the beads of sweat that were running down his neck.

 _“It’s too warm for these.”_ Sherlock whispered against John’s lips, running one long finger over John’s clothed body. John murmured a wordless agreement, feeling his buttons come free of their holes, absently wondering if he should be alarmed by the fact that his clothes were coming free of his body of their own accord.

 _“Much better,”_ Sherlock purred, kissing a light, feathery path down John’s body until he was level with John’s nipple. He kissed and licked tortuously, and John threw his head back with a mighty curse. His nipples had never been this sensitive, and he dimly realised it was probably some kind of magic making his body this responsive, but fuck it, he didn’t care so long as Sherlock kept _doing that._ Sherlock growled and bit down softly and for one alarming moment John actually thought this might make him come, but then Sherlock was detaching and moving to lay down, leaving John standing at the end of the bed, naked with the most solid erection he’d had in years. He hadn’t even been _touched_ there yet.

 _“Come and take me, John.”_ Sherlock wrapped a hand around his own erection and squeezed a clear drop from the tip and the next thing John knew, he was crawling onto the bed with his mouth open wide, humming his thanks as Sherlock guided John’s face into his lap and pushed himself inside John’s mouth. John was delirious with arousal, his hips canting minutely against the sheets as he lost himself in the taste of Sherlock, in the weight of him against his tongue. He wanted to taste Sherlock’s seed, feel it on his skin, feel it filling him up, fuck, John wanted so much and he wasn’t sure any of it would be enough to satisfy his need. In the distance, John felt a stab of sympathy when he realised that Sherlock had been feeling this way for over a week.

 _“Lay on your back, love.”_ Sherlock cooed from above him, and John hastened to comply, keening softly as Sherlock ran deliberately gentle fingertips along John’s balls and perineum. His hole clenched with powerful force, like it was trying to draw Sherlock’s fingers inside, and Sherlock smiled as though in reward.

 _“We don’t want to hurt you.”_ Sherlock pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to John’s neck, and John nearly yelled in pleasure a moment before slippery fingers pressed inside him, and he lost the ability to speak completely. The implications of ‘we’ didn’t seem to matter at all when everything between John's legs felt so good, his cock dripping like a leaky faucet and his hole contracting in unbearably pleasurable spasms. His balls were drawn tight already, eager to release the fluid contained within, but Sherlock seemed intent on prolonging the torture, and John could only whimper and let Sherlock finger him into a writhing mess.

 _“I think you’re almost ready for my cock, now.”_ Sherlock said lowly in John’s ear, holding his hand still and smirking when John wailed in protest and canted his hips, fucking himself on Sherlock’s fingers. _“You’re so wet and open for me. You’re desperate, aren’t you John? Are you desperate to feel my cock pushing up inside you?”_

“Yes!” John gasped, the effort of finding that one simple word in his scattered brain nearly impossible. His hands were gripping his own legs so hard his knuckles were white, holding himself wide open in a desperate plea for Sherlock to have at everything in between.

Sherlock removed his fingers and John groaned in genuine remorse. “Ohfuck!” John babbled as he felt the hot, blunt head of Sherlock’s cock pressing gently against his entrance, and John thrashed about underneath him, doing everything in his power to impale himself. Sherlock was unusually strong, and pinned John into position.

_“Be patient. I promise, I’m going to fuck you now.”_

“Then do it!” John begged, the pressure in his own cock bordering on agony. If Sherlock wasn’t inside him soon, he was sure he would quite literally die.

 _“This is going to feel so good, John.”_ Sherlock purred, pushing forwards and filling John to the hilt. The sound John made didn’t sound remotely human, and the sensation was so intense John nearly came on the spot. John’s arms and legs came to wrap tightly around Sherlock as though he were afraid Sherlock might bolt. Mercifully, his lover didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, and kept rocking into John with long, deep thrusts that sent sparks through John’s body with each gloriously wet slide.

 _“Oh John, our bodies fit so perfectly together.”_ Sherlock groaned, his expression indecently indulgent. John couldn’t have agreed more, letting his hands stray to Sherlock’s buttocks, helping him move so that he could thrust harder and deeper inside John’s body. It seemed ludicrous, insane really, that John had been denying the two of them this all week, and he silently vowed that he would never, never ever deny Sherlock sex ever again, hell they never even had to stop…

“Sherlock, please, please go faster…” John whined, and let out a strangled sob when Sherlock obliged. John was close, so very close, he would have happily sold his own soul if it meant he could _finally_ come. Sherlock was panting, grunting, his thrusts becoming more urgent and excited and John knew he was close too, and it was perfect, all of it.

Just then, a soft breeze stirred the room, several of the candles going out and the windows giving a rattle. Sherlock’s dark, sensual expression disappeared, and he suddenly looked as though he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object. His hips faltered ever so slightly, and his mouth dropped open in shock.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, in his own voice now. “What… oh!” Sherlock bucked his hips, confusion and agonising pleasure written all across his face.

Realising that Sherlock was himself again, John reared up and pulled his boyfriend into a bruising kiss. “Come for me.” John whispered, relief coursing through his body a moment before Sherlock’s orgasm did. John threw his head back on the pillow, giving what could only be described as a screech of unbearable pleasure as two fat tears squeezed from his clenched eyes and ran down his temples. His orgasm refused to die down, and John thrashed his head uselessly, barely hearing the demented sounds they were making together as they shuddered through their climax.

John passed out right before Sherlock collapsed atop him.

 

*

 

“D’you think it worked?” Sam asked as they thundered up the stairs of 221B, salt-gun at the ready just in case.

“Only one way to find out.” Dean remarked grimly, prepared to find either a recovered Sherlock Holmes or a torn-apart John Watson.

What he wasn’t prepared for (although really, he should have been) was the sight of both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, naked as the day they were born, completely comatose on their bed with their limbs still wrapped around one another.

“Ugh, I didn’t need to see that.” Dean complained, screwing up his eyes and stomping into the living room to wait until the pair had recovered.

 

*

 

After John and Sherlock had woken up, thanked Dean and Sam (or rather, John had thanked Dean and Sam and Sherlock had coolly noted the disarray John had allowed the apartment to fall into) they had an awkward conversation during the obligatory British custom of having a nice cup of tea after a traumatic experience.

“There may be some residual effects.” Sam said apologetically to Sherlock. “Your libido will probably stay slightly elevated.”

“Though I don’t think John will have any problem with that, hey Johnny boy?” Dean flashed John a winning smile, earning a glare from Sherlock.

 _“Thank you,_ but I assure you if I have any problems, I won’t hesitate to call the _experts.”_ Sherlock kept his face blank, but the sneer was implied.

“Right, well on that note, we might get going.” Sam smiled tightly and stood.

“One second, I have to take a piss.” Dean announced, making his way to the bathroom and causing John to pause mid-sip. The three of them sat in silence for a minute or so, right before an enormous crash from upstairs shook the whole apartment.

“What on earth?” John leapt to his feet. What the hell could be happening now?

Dean re-entered the living room, his eyes wide, his face slightly pale and his hair flaked with what looked suspiciously like the plaster in John and Sherlock’s bathroom walls.

“Question.” Dean announced to the room in general. “Have you always had a big blue box in your bathroom?” 


End file.
